The Other Side of Dawn
by NightmareWeaver
Summary: Riddick gets tossed into Crete, a prison that proves much harder to escape than Butcher Bay and not just because of the locals. Sequel to 'Darkness, Be My Friend'.
1. Welcome to Crete

A/N : This is the sequel to 'Darkness, Be My Friend' and, for those of you who have read the old version then you should know that this one is quite a bit different. This story will be at least twenty-six chapters long, and there shall be violence.

**The Other Side of Dawn**

Prologue : Welcome to Crete

_The comm monitor on the control panel lit up as one unwavering hand flipped up a switch and the merc known as Lenne Merett scanned the frequencies that scrolled onto the screen, ignoring the stray strands of his jet black hair that were tickling his face; he'd have to cut it soon. Outside the cockpit window of the small ship loomed the curve of a huge planet, the gleam of the nearby sun revealing the deep azure color of the horizon; this was Oceania and the blue was from the unending span of water that hugged the planet's surface. The planet's specs ran across another, smaller screen to his left, but he didn't even spare it a glance; he'd memorized the properties of this world the minute he'd first took up his rather questionable career._

_With an overabundance of dihydrogen monoxide, Oceania would have been an ideal place for colonization save for the conspicuous absence of major land masses. Within the cerulean depths of the endless sea lurked a wide array of monstrous creatures that would put even the deadliest of Old Earth's sharks to shame. It was a dangerous place, this ocean, for anyone and anything that was not native to the world. _

_Then there was the rock._

_It stood in the shallowest area, jutting out of the water with black cliffs raised so high and so jagged in texture that any possibility of scaling them was left to the risk of whoever was crazy enough to dare such a venture. The rock spanned a distance of five hundred miles in each direction and was shaped like a rather lopsided, seven pointed star, fluctuating in height along the arms; it could barely be seen from space unless you were one of the few who knew where to look for it. Lenne was one of those few; he hated coming here, but right now that couldn't be helped for Oceania was the closest drop off unless he wanted to go into cryo._

_He loathed cryo and only used it when there was no other choice; there was a set up in the back of the ship for just such an emergency, but at the moment it was occupied. He was glad he'd traded for a different ship instead of keeping the bigger cargo freighter that his quarry had previously been flying. The regulators were running and he cast a glance back over his shoulder, just to make completely sure; strapped into the cryo-unit was the muscular form of one Richard B. Riddick, head slumped against his chest. He was chained as secure as possible, but Lenne knew better; he'd heard the stories behind this particular merc killer so there was no such thing as being too careful._

_He ran a hand over his left forearm, feeling one of his old scars as he frowned to himself; he'd confiscated all the blades he could find, but something was bothering him about this whole thing. It wasn't the fact that Riddick had killed his two team mates, no, Lenne had witnessed crew deaths before; he'd even been the cause of a few, not that there was anyone alive to testify to that. No, it was the whole situation that gave him that uneasy feeling; he'd seen the whole thing happening from the beginning as if it had happened in slow motion._

_Vern had run up from the port, ranting about the ship they'd gotten the call about a week previous; it wasn't long before they saw that his tall tale wasn't a lie. There, walking down the street was the biggest payday in the history of all the guild; but the puzzling thing was that Riddick wasn't alone. There was a kid, a boy judging from the clothes and the cut of the hair; the kid was following the convict like someone infected with an extreme case of hero worship. _

_That may have probably been the case, but the minute they let off that first shot, Riddick had sent the kid running and turned back towards them; then Vern had to be an idiot and strike up a conversion. Now he and Ace were both dead, not that Lenne was complaining; they had both been complete morons in his book. He'd been the smart one, to duck out of the way and wait for the opportune moment to strike; Riddick had stolen Vern's gun and just as Lenne had stepped out with his own pistols drawn, the man had pulled the trigger._

_Riddick had looked stunned to see Lenne standing there in front of him instead of behind; he'd turned and shouted to see the pitiful sight of the kid, bleeding from a bullet to the chest with an expression of surprise on his child's face. Lenne had almost felt pity for the convict, almost; the kid's death had provided just the distraction he'd needed to take Riddick down. It wasn't until he'd had his quarry secure on the ship that he'd turned back and returned to the street to find that the body of the boy had vanished; there was nothing left but a drying puddle of blood._

_He'd looked, but only for a moment; the answer to the kid's disappearance had been right in front of his eyes. He didn't even need to walk in and check to know what had happened, so he had left for the eight hundred thousand he'd get for turning this Riddick in, the highest pay for his head; except maybe Crematoria, but he was currently banned from bringing any of his catches there after getting in a fight with one of the guards._

_There were only two structures built upon the highest surfaces of the rock. They were the only two needed, for everything else was kept in the belly of it, within the caverns that ran rampant under the surface. _

_The first building was raised from the same nearly black stone as the rock itself and it was set before large and relatively flat stretch of surface area over the length of the island's longest arms that held easily recognizable scorch marks as scars. They were the telltale signs of engine burn-off from multiple take-offs and landings, all from visiting space craft, for the first building was a hangar and the ship kept within was for emergency use only. The hangar was three kilometers from the second building, but there was no trail between the two; anyone needing to traverse the space between those buildings needed five access codes and a working knowledge of mine carts._

_The second building was the guard station, home to twenty-five of the universe's worst scum, all on the payroll of the Company and the majority of whom Lenne didn't get along with. They were, to be blunt, a group of crude and uncouth bastards who abused the power they held over their charges, especially those of the feminine persuasion. Their job was to keep the rest of the universe's scum from escaping the natural prison made by the caves below the building that they lived in._

_This wasn't exactly hard, not because the guards were extraordinarily good at their jobs; there were definitely better prison guards out there. The prison had been named Crete after some stupid myth and the guards there ran it along a sadistic principle set down by the Company itself._

_Every inch of the caverns in the rock had been mapped prior to construction; there were roughly five different cavern levels and one of them contained a series of caves whose contexts were so complex that it had taken nearly four years to lock down every entrance, save one._

_This singular cave was dubbed the Labyrinth and it was the only way out; unless you wanted to climb the elevator shaft, which was wired with a live DNA scanner. If anyone living other than the guards tried to ascend the elevator shaft, then the elevator itself would automatically drop. The Labyrinth was the leading cause of death among the inmates at Crete and the reason it was labeled a triple-max slam._

_Lenne stared at the comm screen and pulled up a frequency to transmit his ship's codes; he waited a moment before calling up an audio transmission and throwing on his most spiteful tone._

_"This is Merett," he grumbled, glaring at the receiver. "I'm coming in."_

* * *

_Harsh voices raised to their highest decibel echoed down the vent shaft, causing the pipes to vibrate and directing Marsden Colt's attention upwards. He raised his head and focused on the sounds, stormy gray eyes narrowing into a frown as he concentrated on interpreting the noise. Today he had an audience; another uneven stare watching his every move, it was almost enough to be annoying._

_Any other day he would have told his observer to fuck off, but today wasn't just any other day; for over a week the voices in the pipes had been arguing over the next worthless soul to join the numbers who inhabited this rock. He had sat here, in this little notch in the black stone walls of the main cavern, waiting and listening for the reason behind the yells._

_"We're gettin' a drop," Colt muttered, fishing in the pocket of his nearly scrapped vest for a moment before pulling out a slightly crumpled package of cigarettes. Cursing at the fact that there was only one left, he lit up and tossed the empty pack on the floor beneath his perch. He inhaled deeply, coughing twice before turning his attention back on the pipes. "Big drop, not one o' them stupid no-name eco-terrorists."_

_He shook his head at the thought; the last five fuckers who'd gotten dropped here had all been charged with the menial, insignificant crimes that held only political value. They'd been finished off real quick, either by the other denizens of the caverns or the by dark things that lurked in the lower tunnels._

_"This one's fuckin' got tags."_

_"Tags?" his watcher echoed, crouching against the opposite wall. Colt threw him a sideways glance and shook his head, coughing again; it never ceased to amaze him how little this kid knew of the system._

_"Three fuckin' years and you still don't know the lingo," he grumbled, taking another drag on his cigarette before pointing at the pipes. "Fuckers up top've been arguin' over whether or not to accept the new drop, 'cause apparently it's one o' the big ol' nasties."_

_"Is that so?" his watcher asked, sounding indifferent._

_"You don't get it do you?" Colt questioned, annoyed now. "If they accept the drop it means trouble down here and trouble down here means a lock down, searches. They'll find the shit you smuggled in, the carvin's on your wall, that nice little knife you managed to knick and-"_

_"Throw me in solitary for a week," King retorted with a glare. "I know all that shit and I don't care."_

_"So tell me then, exactly why're you so interested in what's goin' on topside anyways?" Colt asked, flicking the ashes off the end of his cigarette._

_The younger man stood, jaw clenching as his green eyes flickered in apparent thought; there was a tangled mass of jet black curls atop his head and a small scar on his chin. He was twenty, maybe twenty-one, and a force to be reckoned with in a fight; Colt knew, he'd seen what had happened when the boy had been first dropped here. He was about as close a friend as one could get in a place like this; they talked when there was something to talk about._

_"I think I've found a way out," King announced after a moment, meeting Colt's gaze._

_"That's what you said last month," the older man reminded him with a slight chuckle, putting out his cigarette on the side of the wall. "This is Crete, King. The only way out o' here is in a body bag." _

* * *

_The Guards were nervous, not that Lenne cared very much; he watched as the one in charge counted out the cred chips from the safe while out of the corner of his eye he saw the rest of them prepping the elevator. There had been an issue earlier, in which they'd almost refused to accept this drop, but in the end greed won out on both sides. Lenne had agreed to take only seven hundred thousand instead of the full bounty, so long as the guards made the report to the guild within the month._

_Otherwise he'd be back, and they'd be out of a job._

_The guard finished and handed the money over; Lenne shifted through it, nodding before putting it in his pocket. He turned towards the rest of the guards, his gaze falling on the chained form of Riddick; the con's head was down, eyes closed against the light. An idea hit him at that moment, and he let a grin cross his face as he stepped forward._

_"Don't look so down," he said, laughing slightly. "The kid isn't dead."_

_The con's head shot up, eyes opening involuntarily in shock; he shut them again in a moment, growling and Lenne laughed more audibly._

_"Not to worry, though. I'm thinking once he's healed up, I'll take him in to the guild, teach him the trade. Apprenticeship and all that shit." _

_As he expected, this news didn't go over too well; Riddick lunged forward with a roar, chained hands going for Lenne's throat. The guards reacted almost too slow, but the merc had been waiting; he drew his pistol and pointed it straight at the con's forehead, pulling back the hammer with an audible click. The room froze for a moment, but eventually the guards collected their wits and were able to pull Riddick back away from the point of the gun._

_Lenne returned it to its holster, watching as they loaded the con onto the elevator with a slight smirk on his face; of course he was going to hold through on what he said. There was nothing he liked better than playing people against each other and this opportunity was too good to pass up; he turned towards the door, throwing a sideways glance at the prison boss._

_"Better get that report in." _

* * *

_The creaking sounds of the elevator lowering down into the depths caught Colt's attention. He turned towards it and absently reached into his pocket for his cigarette pack, cursing when he remembered using up his last one. He glanced off to the side and saw King still standing there, the younger man's gaze aimed straight at the thick doors at the bottom of the elevator shaft._

_"Don't even think about it," Colt warned, stepping back towards the notch in the wall. "Fuck, don't even think about thinkin' about it."_

_The boy looked over at him, frowning, then turned towards the elevator again; Colt sighed and shook his head._

_This was going to be a very long day._


	2. End of the Line

A/N : Just to let you all know, this story isn't as far along as 'Darkness' was at this same point. Hell, 'Darkness' was nearly finished by the time I first posted it. This story, on the other hand, is mostly still in outline form. There's going to be a lot of violence and shit, but that's alright because we all love violence. especially when Riddick's the one doling it out.

d - Glad to be back. Enjoy this 'mild' violence as it is planned to be worse some time in the future.

TotallyRiddickObsessed - Yesh, glad you like the description 'cause Riddick is going to be there for a while. I'm working on the next chapter right now. Unfortunatly it's only 2/3's of the way done as I have yet to come up with the witty and curse filled banter between two certain people in the very last section of it.

bima - Yay! As mentioned above, I'm working on the next chapter. It doesn't exactly explain Riddick's actions in this one, but there's someone else in it that you'll be happy to see.

**The Other Side of Dawn**

Chapter One : End of the Line

Bad enough to be shoved into a month long cryo-induced nightmare, worse to be dragged out of it into an even more sickening reality. The merc's words echoed in his head like some sick mantra, infuriating to the point that the darkness howled for blood. The elevator descended and Riddick was barely able to focus on the present problem of the restraints; he kept his hands as close together as the chains would allow, consciously aware of the guards on either side. It took a much longer time than he'd originally anticipated to pop the locks, but a near silent click reached his ears as the descending gears ground to a halt.

The nearest guard turned and Riddick took a premeditated step backwards, twisting to the left to grab him by the throat with a crushing grip. He felt the man's windpipe shatter beneath his hand and growled; this was what the darkness wanted, the beast craved blood and it didn't matter whose. In another second the next guard let out a startled shout, the situation having finally made the connection within his brain.

Blood gurgled from the crushed throat of the first guard and Riddick dropped him, spinning in time to knock the barrel of the second guard's gun aside. The bullet went off with a deafening crack that reverberated throughout the enclosed space of the lift and left a hole in the opposite wall. Unflinching, Riddick lunged forward, knocking the gun away and closing his right hand over the guard's face; cutting off all oxygen and maintaining a sturdy grip, he slammed the man's head back into the wall.

The first time there was nothing but the hollow clang of something thick hitting the seemingly unmovable metal wall; it was not enough force to render the owner of the skull unconscious, but enough that, if he could scream, he would have. The second repeated motion, on the other hand, was, from a logical view, unnecessary; the point had already been irreversibly proven. But Riddick was beyond logic at this particular time, the darkest half of his mind had escaped its confines and was fully intent on making the most of it.

The guard's skull cracked under the force of the second blow, collapsed with the third, and nearly liquefied with the fourth; only then did Riddick release the now undoubtedly dead man. He turned again to the first merc, who was still clinging to life despite all odds, and yanked him up by the collar of his vest. The man's eyes were unfocused and there was a small rivlet of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth; disregarding this fact, Riddick snapped his neck then moved to search the guard's pockets.

He stood straight a moment later, discarding all other findings as he fixed his goggles back over his eyes and opened them to the present scene; any other person would have been horrified at the blood that painted the floors and walls. Riddick just stared, uncaring in the least; the darkness, for the moment at least, was appeased at the sight. He turned his gaze towards the unopened doors, listening to the muffled sounds beyond them; no doubt that single gunshot had caused quite a stir amongst the denizens of this place.

There were footsteps echoing on stone, more than likely the customary welcome party that always greeted new inmates no matter what the slam. There was a control panel set in the wall nearest the door, and though it was now flecked with specks of blood and other less namable pieces of matter, it appeared to still be operational. Riddick stepped up to it, and turned the small knob fixed on the side; the elevator gears began to slowly grind again, this time in an upwards direction.

He waited, feeling the movement of the lift as it was raised and trying not to think about what would happen after he reached the top. A distraction presented itself half-way towards the ascended destination as several alarms began grinding themselves repetitively into his eardrums; his responding growl went unheard in the din.

**UNAUTHORIZED DNA CODING ****  
****UNAUTHORIZED DNA CODING**

A fleeting memory crossed Riddick's mind of another slam and another time, where the weapons the guards carried had a similar DNA encryption system; somehow he figured the result of this one would be something much more lethal than an electric shock.

**UNAUTHORIZED DNA CODING ****  
****UNAUTHORIZED DNA CODING**

_Heard you the first time..._

The elevator jerked to a stop, creaking ominously as the alarm continued to screech; Riddick reached over and put his fist through the controls, silencing the screaming. Then he raised his gaze upwards, calculating; He reached up, catching the handles of the ceiling hatch in his hands. He slammed open and managed to grab hold of the edge to haul himself up just as the gears gave way. The air brushed past, filled with the sounds of scraping metal as the corners of the lift caught on the sidings.

In the next few seconds, as he made his way towards the center where the cables were attached, Riddick counted; he knew the fundamental limitations of gravity. On the dirtball that was Old Earth, the acceleration of the planet's gravitic pull was approximately three hundred twenty kilometers per hour, give or take. This was not Old Earth, the pull was slightly stronger and thus the rush of the fall was slightly faster; a three minute descent was turned into a drop of twenty seconds.

The bottom of the lift smashed into the ground with a resounding crash and, though the elevator itself was made to withstand such forces, the passengers usually were not. Riddick did the only thing he could do, given the circumstances; he jumped.

* * *

The main cavern started to fill with the sounds of the lift grinding to a halt at the bottom of the elevator shaft; it was always the weaker, less hardened members of the population who found the courage to make up the welcome party. Sameth King crouched in the shadows, half hidden behind a cluster of stalagmites, his eyes focused on the doors; he like the others had heard and tensed at the muffled gunshot that had echoed out. Now there was general confusion amongst them at the sounds of the elevator being raised without disgorging its passengers; this of course, meant one of two things.

King closed his eyes and began to count; he knew the exact number needed to be totaled, for he had tried this same exact stunt himself when he'd first arrived. It was a rather rude awakening to find out the hard way that the elevator was rigged; how efficiently he'd divined from several repeated tries afterwards. Today, however, the warning from Colt echoed sharply in his mind, so he decided to simply be the observer.

The grating screech of the alarms reached King's ears and he grinned despite himself, familiar with those sounds; not even a few seconds later they were abruptly silenced.

_What'd he do, rip out the controls?_

A few of the lesser denizens were slightly panicked, unsure of what to do when suddenly the sounds of a very large something falling with only a little resistance began to whittle away at their resolve. The following crash caused several of them to back up a few dozen steps, nervous glances being cast on either side; there were murmurs of which King ignored. He stood up, having seen and heard enough, and moved towards one of the many side passageways that littered the caverns.

He passed by Colt, still holed up in his little notch in the wall; the older man gave him a slight nod of recognition which, though marked, was not returned. King was one of the very few who could walk through Colt's radar and come out physically and mentally unscathed; it was a special trick of sorts that only three others in Crete could get away with. It was almost a source of jealousy amongst the other inmates, to be in the old man's good graces, though no one would admit it.

King, however, had the special privilege of knowing the full story behind Colt's extended stay at Crete; he was as close a friend as the old man would allow. It had never occurred to King that, in telling the old man his own story, he'd created that knotted loop.

Listening to the echo of his own footsteps, King walked down the corridor into the lower reaches of Crete. Down beneath the catwalks were the labyrinthine halls and side passages that made up the sealed caverns of the rock; the majority of it was center beneath the guard tower that sat topside, very little of the actual prison extended into the outer edges of the caverns. It was towards these fringes that King headed, descending the multitude of chain ladders and bridges. Since the rest of the population was currently occupied, he wasn't bothered as he reached the lower halls; the ladders ended abruptly, but still he climbed down, using handholds that he'd carved in the stone walls himself.

It was darker in the lower reaches, dark enough to ward off anyone who tried to follow him, but King knew these passages well; he was one of the very few who dared to climb down this far into the caves. Silently he moved down the narrow corridors that permeated this level, the air was cold and damp but he ignored it. The walls came close together at one point, narrowing until it was only possible to slide through sideways unless you knew about the wider opening roughly fifteen feet higher; he climbed it easily, crawling through to drop down the other side of the wall into what could relatively be referred to as his home, though it was more of a place to stash his collection of pilfered objects than a place to live.

There were boxes of canned goods stolen from the kitchens stacked neatly in one corner, several blades he'd made himself stashed in various nooks, and a carton of Colt's favorite brand of cigarettes for bartering when he wanted to talk. In the corner was what could have served for a bed, but was really just a pile of tattered blankets; the small chamber was lit by a single rewired lamp nicked from one of the upper passages. It was flickering and King glanced up at it in slight concern.

_Gonna have to replace that soon. _

Sighing, he sat down on his makeshift bed and looked up at the wall; scratched into the smooth black surface was a wide collection of twisted lines that, to the casual observer, made no sense. Next to these etchings were a smaller collection of marks, mere tallies carved into the rock; one such group held just three, another held four, and the final held thirteen. He reached up and brushed a hand over the thirteen markers, lingering over it for a second; then suddenly a distorted scream reached his ears, echoing a thousand times over through the caverns.

He turned his head towards the sound, self-preservation preventing him from investigating the silence that followed.

* * *

From atop the outside of the lift, Riddick found the wires for the interior controls; he waited until the outer doors had opened completely before messing with them. In the few seconds it took him to detach and rework the control mechanisms, half of the welcome party had filtered into the chamber below. He could hear them, arguing over who had grabbed the discarded guns; logic dictated he let them kill themselves over the possession of the two weapons, but the beast in the darkness still wanted to have some fun.

He reattached the wires and listened to the startled shouts of those below as the doors slammed shut again, trapping them inside. Removing his goggles, he kicked apart the light conduit, plunging the lift below into absolute darkness; as he expected, the ones who had appropriated the guns decided to waste their ammunition on firing at the ceiling. Dropping silently back into the chaos, Riddick avoided the hassle of getting caught by stray bullets; the clips emptied soon enough and in the darkness they couldn't find the extra clips, though of course they searched.

They smelled of fear; he struck, lashing out at the nearest one so fast that the sound of his own neck snapping reached his ears before he realized he was dead. Riddick took the makeshift blade from the man's hand before dropping his now lifeless body; the others were in a panic, having heard the sickening snap that had heralded their comrade's demise. Lunging away from this one kill, Riddick's stolen blade slammed into the chest of the nearest person, knocking him to the floor.

Yanking the knife back, a small chunk of flesh coming with it, Riddick spun low and sliced through the Achilles' tendon of the next man; he went down only to have his neck crushed by his assailant's boot. Swinging the knife in an upwards arc as he stood, Riddick hit the fourth in the gut, though this one was wearing a thicker layer of rags than the others; it snagged the knife, preventing it from cutting into his abdomen.

This bought three seconds of time in which the remaining member of the welcome party managed to find one of the dead guard's clips and fit it into his gun; he turned and pulled the trigger only to find that it was his comrade on the other end. The bullets tore the man apart, and Riddick, sidestepping from behind him, pivoted to his right to slam his fist into the remaining man's skull, cutting off his shout of terror; the blow sent him reeling back into the wall with such a force that his skull cracked against the metal. Riddick bent down slit his throat, kicking the gun aside as he did so; a second later he stood, glaring down at the bloody sight he had created.

_Did not know who they were fucking with._


	3. Guns and Roses

A/N : This chapter's kind of on the short side, sorry.

Bima -You're always one of the first three reviewers on everything I post O.O!and that isawesome.Hugs, Kisses, and other Hershey products for you.

TotallyRiddickObsessed - Yesh, violence is always fun. Here's the next chapter, enjoy!

Chapter Two : Guns and Roses

The crate was two feet by three with an unverifiable amount of cans containing what King suspected to be corn, or some sub-species of it. The problem was that the lid of the aforementioned crate was clamp-sealed on the inside to prevent the contents from being compromised during transport and thus was proving very hard to open using conventional methods. Thankfully he was not utilizing normal means to open the box, which would have required a handheld de-sealant, but was instead prying open one of the corners with a screwdriver knicked from one of the service crews that had repaired the upper vent shafts a few months back.

It wasn't working out very well.

"You know, if you took apart a few of the wires in your light you could magnetically de-polarize the seal," suggested a voice somewhere behind him. King didn't need to look to know that it was Colt; the older man's scratched up voice was easily recognizable. "Brought you somethin'."

"What?" King asked, glancing over.

Colt's face cracked into a smug grin as he swung the straps of two familiar looking guns off his shoulder, holding them out for King to see.

_Holy fuck…_

"You have my attention," King informed him, laying his screwdriver aside.

"First, I'll need a pack o' cigs, if you don't mind," Colt told him, nodding towards the stashed carton that the younger man kept for trading. King shook his head, but quickly moved to retrieve the cigarettes; he noted that there were only three more packs left before turning and tossing one over to Colt.

"Those things'll kill you," he informed the older man, who chuckled wryly in response.

"That's the fuckin' point," Colt muttered as he hurriedly lit one up, taking a long drag on it before coughing up a storm. As soon as the fit subsided he walked over and set the guns on the crate King had been working on, smug grin returning quickly to his face before he fished in his pockets and pulled out two clips. "Leftovers."

King couldn't help but smile at the sight of the clips, but turned his attention back to the guns, inspecting them; they were of a twenty-first century line, refurbished and remodeled so many times that it was hard to tell what kind of guns they'd originally been. He knew, however, having used similar types himself, though he was far from impressed; M4's weren't exactly comparable to the newer lines of pulse guns that had been on the market when he was last outside.

_Still, they'll work well enough…_

"What else do you want?" he asked, not looking up; there was a dark sticky substance on the underside of one of the barrels that really needed no explanation.

"What was the name o' the fucker who dropped you off here?" Colt asked, tapping off the ashes from the tip of his cigarette. The younger man shot him an annoyed look, eyes narrowed, but he appeared to be undeterred and simply stared back with an even gaze.

"Lenne Merett," King muttered after a moment.

"Well, it may interest you to know that he was just topside a couple o' hours ago," Colt informed him, grin widening. "May interest you even more to know just who he dropped off."

King raised an eyebrow, attention now drawn away from the guns to what the older man had to say; the aforementioned merc was on his blacklist after all.

"Remember me sayin' that the fucker had tags?"

"Vaguely," he responded, throwing in a slightly sarcastic undertone for good measure.

"Six hundred and three kills accounted for," Colt said, puffing in on his cigarette. "Six escapes on record, includin'-"

"Butcher Bay," King finished; he knew those tags but the fact of the matter was that he didn't exactly believe what the older man was trying to tell him. "You have got to be kidding me."

* * *

It was a dull persistent ache, like that of a sore muscle, that dragged Jack from the dark void of unconsciousness. She slowly blinked opened her eyes to different kind of dark, pupils adjusting in a lethargically blurred fashion; it was a while before her vision became clear enough to make out her surroundings. She shifted slightly, moving her arm to push away the rough fabric that seemed to be encasing her on all sides, and the pain suddenly flared to a peak, burning at her shoulder.

Gasping at it, she froze automatically, willing it to go away; for a moment it was all she could focus on and she nearly fell back into the void again. After a moment, however, it faded enough so that she could think about something else and so she turned her attention to the sheets, moving her other arm instead to pull them away. Once that obstacle was conquered, she tried to sit up, gritting her teeth against whatever pain that action might bring; she managed it after several long seconds, the springs of whatever bed she was on creaking slightly.

Now she was free to look about the room, though there wasn't much to look at; four bare walls dark with the absence of light, a door, and a window with the shades pulled shut were the only things of significance. There was a nightstand on one side of her bed and a chair on the other, upon which was stacked a variety of clothes that she vaguely recognized. Jack frowned, staring at them until it finally hit her; the clothes were hers, bought especially for her and-

She looked up, stopped from her race down the covered street by a confusion in her mind; there was blood on her shirt, a pain in her shoulder, and horrified look on the face of someone she knew.

_Riddick?_

Abruptly she reached for her pockets, digging through them even as the ache in her shoulder blazed to life again; she ignored it the best she could, searching until her hand came across the glossed texture of the photo strip. Pulling it out, she brought it into view though the darkness obscured it slightly, her mind filled in the frames one by one, dredging up the memory. She ran a thumb over where she knew his face would be, biting her lip against the sudden sting in her eyes.

_He shot me…he…_

Her throat suddenly felt too tight; she stared down at the paper, her frown deepening as she tried to keep any tears from falling, but to no avail. They came, slipping down her cheeks like the slow drip of a leaky faucet; one traced a path down to her chin and fell with a silent splash onto one of the pictures.

"Oh," she cried, quickly swatting the droplet away to prevent it from sinking in and warping the paper, but that, of course, was futile.

Now there was a splotch mark on the middle frame, and for some reason this made her more upset than before; she swiped at her face now, thwarting more tears before they could fall and ruin the pictures even more.

Sniffling, she held the strip of paper away so her tears would fall on her sheets rather than the photos; it was then that she realized her shirt was missing. Momentarily forgetting how upset she was, Jack turned to look for it, which in turn caused the pain in her shoulder to attack her nerves again. This time she cried out and, unable to keep herself sitting anymore, fell back onto the bed; she squeezed her eyes shut, suddenly finding it harder to breath.

Briefly she thought she heard someone shouting her name; a horrified shout, a voice she had grown to know, and realization bubbled to the surface.

_Riddick…he…he didn't mean to…he…_

The photo paper slipped from her hand, falling to the floor though she could make no move to retrieve it; the fight to stay conscious was lost and she slipped back into the void again.

* * *

"Let me get this straight," King began, slowly setting down the gun he had previously been inspecting. "That drop, the one that just came in not five fucking hours ago-"

"If I have to repeat myself one more fucking' time I will personally remove your intestines," Colt snapped, squashing the butt of his second cigarette beneath the heel of his boot even as he lit up his third. "Isn't it enough to know who the bastard is without repeating his name every five seconds?"

He let out a cough, then took a deep drag off his new cig, stowing the lighter in his pocket once again; he looked rather irritated.

"Well, Jesus fucking Christ, Colt," King retorted, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Someone a might bit worse than those assholes down east just got dropped on our heads. How many did you say he killed? Five, six? I'd say that's a bit of a fucking problem don't you."

"Yep," Colt said with a nod. "I'd say they'll be lockin' us down within the next hour just to try and throw him and you in solitary, just like I fuckin' told you before."

"Why the fuck would they throw me in solitary?" King asked, standing up; his hair fell in his eyes, but he took no note of it. "I didn't fucking do anything yet!"

"Two dead guards with missin' guns," Colt pointed out, nodding towards the objects in question with a bit of a smile.

_Aw fuck…_

"Asshole," King cursed at him; the old man's smile widened and he nodded.

"Yeah," he replied, puffing on his cigarette as he leaned against the wall. "I've been gettin' that a lot lately. My suggestion, when the alarm sounds, blow out the light."

He coughed again, taking his time about collecting his lungs to continue speaking, clearing his throat and making a few other disgusting, mucus related noises as well. King was just beginning to question whether or not it would be better to remove the old man's lungs or esophagus first, even going so far as to reach for his best knife, when Colt spoke up again.

"Your plan, I'd like to here it," he muttered, turning towards the exit. "If you happen to be alive after lockdown."


	4. Waking Up Again

A/N : I have returned from my stint in California visiting all my obscure relatives and acting like a tourist. I went to Alcatraz and said 'Pfsshh, Riddick'd be out of here in 3 seconds flat',

hellspixie18 - A lot of people are happy Jack isn't dead. She's alive and she's going to stay alive for quite a long time into the foreseeable future.

d - In answer to your question...read on.

TotallyRiddickObsessed - You just wait til the chapter after this, 'cause there's to be a whole long conversation concerning just how infamous Riddick actually is.

njrd - They get to talk in the next chapter, which I'm working on right now with the aid of caffeinated beverages.

bima - You are my first reviewer every place I post this, which is awesome of course. No, they didn't piss their pants...yet.

**The Other Side of Dawn**

Chapter Three : Waking Up Again

It was the absence of darkness that woke Jack again, although the pain in her shoulder was still there, recognizable in the way that one can tell their nose exists; barely able to be seen but extremely noticeable if it goes missing. The sheets were already pushed away from her earlier bout of consciousness, so there was no annoyance from that part of her surroundings; the walls had to be painted white, to make the room so bright that she was forced to squint until her eyes adjusted. In the glare of the flourescents mounted on the ceiling multiple shadows fell across the floor from where the furniture blocked the light; one particular shadow, however, was cast by someone standing in the doorway, squinting back at her.

"So, what the fuck is your name?" this someone asked in an effort to make their own voice sound menacing by throwing it into a disdainful whisper; it didn't exactly work. Blinking, Jack pushed herself up with her good arm, hand balanced on the mattress, so she could get a better look at this possible antagonist; it was a girl, slightly older and taller than herself, but, more to the point she was holding a tray full of food in the grumpiest way possible. "Well, you going to answer?"

"Huh?" Jack asked, looking away from the tray; her stomach was rumbling with a ham sandwich no more than five feet away.

"What the fuck is your name?" the other girl asked again, all attempts to sound dangerous replaced by annoyance instead; there was a small black smudge mark on her nose. Jack bit her lip, looking down at her hands, which of their own accord had twisted the hem of her shirt.

"It's Jack," she replied, looking back up. "What's yours?"

The girl didn't answer; in fact she seemed even more annoyed that Jack had given in to the question. She walked over to the bed, face contorted into a spiteful frown; a dark brown curl had tugged its way out of the short ponytail she wore and was now hanging over her left eye. Setting the tray down on the table next to the bed, she gave Jack an 'I-don't-like-you-and-I-never-will' kind of glare; her eyes looked exactly like an amber flecked marble three seconds before getting hit by a hammer.

_What'd I do?_

Watching as the girl stomped back out the door, Jack wondered what could have happened to have earned that glare; then she looked at the sandwich. It sat there on the tray like the greatest thing since sliced bread, well, greater than canned peaches anyways; She picked it up and wondered briefly how long she had been out of it to feel this hungry. Tearing into her sandwich, she glanced around the room, gaze falling on the floor; it was made of cheap white tile with no rug to protect bare feet.

The pain in her shoulder had lessened considerably and, by the time she'd finished off her sandwich, Jack was brave enough to take a peak. She wiped the crumbs off of her hands over the tray so as to not get any on the bed; then she pulled down the neck of her shirt.

All around her collar were the yellowish-green remains of a giant bruise surrounding an area of skin that was black with multiple crossed stitches; she winced, biting her lip.

"The bullet shattered your collarbone," the girl's voice broke out, just around the corner past the still open door. "That's why it's bruised. Doc had to do a synth-transplant to fix it."

"Oh," Jack whispered, straightening her shirt.

"_Oh_," the older girl echoed mockingly. "Used up three and a half pints worth of transfusions just to keep you from bleeding to death and all you fucking say is 'oh'!"

"Sorry," Jack mumbled, looking down at the sheets; this, unfortunately, was not a good response.

"_Sorry, sorry_!" the girl repeated, stepping back into the room; her hands were clenched rather tightly into fists. "Sorry's not going to bring my boyfriend back, you thieving little bitch!"

Jack stared at her, genuinely confused; the last time she'd stolen anything had been on Jericho Station and that had gotten her caught. On Dulroon she'd only stolen a few wallets and maybe a few handheld chronos; then the realization dawned, her eyes going wide.

She saw it play out into her mind; deliberately bumping into a couple near the space port, the mumbled apology on her part and the sideways glares they threw at her. There was the moment, sitting in the cellar of a half burned down house, when she pulled out one of the bill folds she'd snatched and an ID card fell out. Dropping it as she looked at it, the panic and fear welling up; then the desperate collection of her meager belongings before the long, zig-zagging dash to the port on the other side of town.

_No way...that's impossible..._

* * *

Water bubbled out of a hole near the ceiling, trickling down the black stone walls to form a shallow stream across one of the thousands of passageways littering Crete; it also happened to be one of the darker places, for some early passerby had stolen the lights. Riddick crouched near the edge of the water, letting it run over his hands before splashing some on his arms; to his eyes the stream ran a darker shade of violet than before. He shut his eyes, slowly closing one hand into a fist as he listened to the footsteps of the cavern's inhabitants shuffling around the corridors; they would avoid him for a while, now that they knew he wasn't one to fuck with.

The welcome party was a custom in every slam where the bottom of the food chain lined up to take on new meat; if they won they'd gain status, if they lost they'd be dead. It was the way it worked in prison, the only exception being Altair; since all the prisoners were on ice there was no one to worry about save for the guards. In a way, cryo prison was peaceful; save for the two minutes a day in which the lucky winner of the lotto became the guard's new toy.

Riddick shook off that thought, standing again; he glanced up the way he'd come but of course there was no one there. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out the strip of photo paper he knew was there; blood had soaked through his pants to stain all the pictures except the last one. He stared at it, trying to wipe away at least some of the stains from the other frames; that smile stared back at him, frozen.

In the last picture she'd borrowed his goggles and they sat askew on her head; he'd had to shut his eyes for the flash while she had smiled and hugged his arm. Then, not even fifteen minutes afterwards, she was bleeding on the ground, a bullet from the gun he'd stolen having bored a hole through her chest. Gritting his teeth, he shoved the pictures back in his pocket; the merc's words suddenly echoed back in his mind, multiplying the urge to hit something.

_The kid isn't dead...Jack isn't dead..._

All mercs were born liars, that was a fact that he'd learned from the blue-eyed devil known as Johns; but then again, a lot of mercs liked to fuck around with their prisoner's heads. The late William Johns had been a chronic but greedy lying son of a bitch, but he hadn't really had the brains for psychological intimidation; this new merc, on the other hand, seemed a bit smarter. Riddick paused in his contemplation, turning his head towards a sound further back down the passageway; the guards were raising the elevator again.

Soon they'd find what was left of his guards as well as the remains of the welcome party; the response would be to lock the entire place down so they could catch him and toss him in solitary for a week. It was predictable and had happened in every slam he'd ever been to, except Butcher Bay; the lockdown there had occurred while he was busy encoding his DNA into the main computer so he could borrow the guard's guns. This place didn't have that kind of tech, he already knew and it probably didn't have as solid a lockdown procedure either; he turned his head towards the darker end of the tunnel.

The walls stretched on, shadows deepening around a bend; he could see several clusters of stalagmites scattered across the floor; the way the air flowed told him that despite the narrowing walls there was a wider portion up ahead. He stepped over the stream, listening to the sounds behind him; creaks of metal and frantic footsteps racing about told him all that he needed to know.

The guards had employed some of the inmates to help with the lockdowns and there were several of them headed in his direction.

* * *

The lights flickered as the older girl took a step forward, appearing to have more skill at looking menacing while being silent than while speaking; Jack watched her warily, a vague thought of deflecting attack with the food tray. She gripped it tightly by the sides, tasting blood in her mouth and a sharp pain in her lip from her teeth; the girl took another step and, unwillingly, Jack closed her eyes. Suddenly the tray was snatched out of her hands, stinging her fingers from where she was clutching it; her eyes snapped open again to focus on the girl.

"What, you going to cry now?" the girl asked, tilting her head; the loose curl rolled across her forehead. "Go ahead."

She spun around, stomping out the door and into the hallway beyond it; this time Jack noticed the heavy army boots she was wearing. A second later, however, the girl came stomping back, reaching inside the room to grab the door handle; another glare was sent Jack's way.

"The name's Kyra, by the way."

The door slammed, making the lights flicker once more; beyond it she could hear the girl stomping away. Sighing, Jack fell back against the bed, wincing at the pain in her shoulder as it flared up again; she glanced back at the door.

_What is going on?_


End file.
